An Unbreakable Bond Read online

  ‘Now, now, my wee one . . .’

  The urge to shout I’m not your wee one! I’m nobody’s wee one fought against the part of Megan that could never hurt Sister Bernadette. But though she didn’t utter the words, she knew them to be the truth. The innocent child she had once been had now gone.

  The locket, cold against her skin, mocked her. Clamping her fingers tightly around it, she paid no heed as its clasp dug sharply into her flesh – better to feel this pain than look at the trinket, which linked her to her past and yet had also wiped out her hopes for the future.

  ‘Look at it later, if that is what you have a mind to do, my wee Megan. But first I will tell you all I know.’

  Lying still, her body stiff with anxiety and her mind in turmoil, the night-time hours seemed endless to Megan. A feeling of loneliness swept over her as she looked over at the bed next to hers. It no longer held the shape of Hattie, curled up in sleep. Always, when troubled, they would creep into each other’s beds and snuggle up together, even though they feared being caught. But now Hattie had gone.

  Sliding her hand under her pillow, Megan found the locket. She felt she would be able to look at it now. She sat up. Holding her breath, she waited, but no one questioned her movements. If any of the others were awake, they would whisper something to her. No sound came.

  A chill shivered through her body as she tiptoed towards the door leading to the corridor. Once there, she opened her clasped fingers. As the light from the gas mantle that shone through the door’s little window glinted off the locket, Megan’s breath caught in anticipation. Opening the locket would let her see members of her family for the first time. Even the word seemed strange to her – ‘family’. A nervous excitement rippled through her: Eeh, I never thought to know of any family, and now I have pictures of me grandparents in a locket worn by me mam. Did she look like them? Had her mam looked like them?

  Sister Bernadette had said that her grandparents had died before she came into being. In a way she was glad of that, as it meant they hadn’t abandoned her mam when she’d most needed them.

  Turning the locket over, she read the words ‘To Catch a Dream’ inscribed in the tarnished, dented silver. Had her granddad had that engraved for her granny? She had so many questions that needed answering.

  A tiny click and the locket opened. Two people looked up at her, but they didn’t look like grandparents. The picture had been taken when they were young. Her granny’s huge, smiling eyes held love, and her granddad, though not smiling, had a twinkle about his expression. Both were beautiful. Tears started to form in Megan’s eyes, but then a warm feeling overtook the sadness as she saw that she had some likeness to both of them. Granny had unruly, wavy hair just like her own, and the freckles on her nose were identical to Megan’s. Granddad had the same high-cut cheekbones as she had, and his eyes, with their slight upward slant that gave them a near-Oriental look, mirrored her own.

  The aged brown tint to the photo didn’t hide the fact that her granddad’s complexion was darker than her granny’s. People often said that Megan had olive skin, so she was like him in that too.

  Sister Bernadette had said she couldn’t remember their names. She hadn’t written them down, and she’d hesitated over her mam’s name, as if she’d forgotten that too. ‘I think her name was Br – Brenda. Brenda, that’s right. Brenda Tattler,’ she’d said. Then she’d told Megan that her mam hadn’t been wicked, and that her conception had been the result of an attack by someone her mam’d trusted. She’d gone on to say, ‘Everything isn’t for being straightforward in life, Megan. ’Tis better you don’t dwell on how you wish things to be, but get on with them how they are. Just be thankful your mammy left you something to hold on to.’

  Getting back into her bed and laying her head on the pillow, Megan mulled over these words in her mind. Swallowing hard to stem the tears that threatened to flow, she told herself she’d do as Sister had said: she’d not dwell on the sadness of parting from Hattie, or of finding out her mam was dead; and she wouldn’t agonize over being alone in an attic and not being good enough for the other girls on her placement to talk to. Instead, she’d think of her family and talk to them. She’d heard you could do that with those who had passed on. The locket had given her folk of her own – folk who would have loved her – and now she knew of them, they’d watch over her and help her. Lifting her head, she pulled the pillow down and wrapped her arms around it. A cold tear trickled down her nose. She held the pillow tighter and snuggled into it.

  2

  A Clash of Classes

  The stagnant view of the symmetrical lawn, bordered by a tall, tailored hedge, epitomized what life had become for Laura Harvey as she gazed out at it from the window of Hensal Grange, the beautiful home in West Yorkshire that her husband Jeremy had inherited from his father, along with acres of land and the Hensal Grange mine.

  Beyond the hedge lay the view she wanted to see: fields coloured with crops, and chimneys releasing gases from the bowels of the earth, where the men and boys sweated long hours to bring up the coal that was the mainstay of their income. And yes, the stables – once the centre of her life, but just a painful memory, now that her dream had ended.

  How often she’d wanted to have the hedge chopped down, but Jeremy had laughed at her, thinking he knew better what privacy she needed in her own little ‘sitting room’, as he called it. He never referred to it as her study.

  Yes, she’d had two Queen Anne carved sofas brought in, had smothered them with soft cushions and placed them either side of the ornate fireplace, making a comfortable sitting area. But the mahogany desk on the opposite side of the room – huge in its proportions, and flanked on either side with floor-to-ceiling shelves, stacked with all manner of books and files – told of the real purpose of the room. Her father-in-law’s death, whilst Jeremy was still serving as an officer in the army, had necessitated her running the estate and had been the original reason for commissioning this room.

  The hedge hadn’t bothered her then, for the room had been a hive of activity. After all, the whole of Breckton breathed life from the Harvey estate.

  Her mind went over how she’d had to learn the ins and outs of running the colliery, the farm and the stables, as well as continuing to manage this grand twenty-bedroom house that she and Jeremy now rattled around in. On top of all of that, overseeing the maintenance of the tied cottages had been her responsibility, as had the shops, the leased farms and the buildings housing businesses such as the blacksmith’s. The work involved in administering it all had been an immense task, especially for her, a woman who, up to that point, had never worked in her life.

  Every day had presented her with a series of new decisions, and she’d risen to the challenge. She’d revelled in it even, but now her life had become tedious. Household accounts she could do with her eyes shut, and listening to the continual whining of the senior household staff as they went about their duties was hardly riveting. Even her marriage no longer held anything for her, not since . . . No. She’d not dwell on that. Her loneliness would crowd her. Suffocate her.

  Oh, how she hoped Emmeline Pankhurst would win through. Not that one altogether agreed with the woman’s methods, but to be liberated enough to have the vote would help towards being seen in a different light.

  Turning away from the window, she decided it would be best to sit at her desk for the task facing her. Observing a certain level of formality would be less of an intrusion on the woman’s feelings. She allowed herself a moment of dread: meeting Tom Grantham’s widow wasn’t something she was looking forward to.

  Laura’s reflection on how much Tom’s death had shocked and hurt her pulled her up short. She’d always thought of staff as dispensable commodities, but Tom had been different. He had been an expert horseman and the best damned groom in these parts. His death had made her realize that he’d become a kind of friend – a father-figure of sorts.

  ‘God! What has one become, when one has to seek companionship from one’s gr
oom? And now I’m bloody talking to myself!’

  She would have to do something. Write to Daphne. Yes, that would be the thing. It wasn’t often that she envied her sister, because Daphne’s life as the wife of a lord – the adorable Charles Crompton – meant she had a full social diary and had to embroil herself in charitable work.

  Laura didn’t think the charitable work would suit her nature at all, but she could do with socializing more. Jeremy just wasn’t interested since . . . Anyway, she’d ask Daphne to come and stay for a few days.

  Daphne would probably insist that Laura visited her in York instead. She wouldn’t say so, but Laura knew her sister found the cold, polite atmosphere of Hensal Grange embarrassing, to say the least. Still, it didn’t matter where. Just to be with Daphne and to talk silly talk, gossip about the latest goings-on and maybe go to a dinner party where young men would flirt with her and tell her she was beautiful, or just notice her even, would be enough.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Hamilton announced Isabella Grantham. One glance at Isabella told her this was a homely woman, used to eating copious amounts of her own cooking. She had the appearance of someone who had scrubbed her face until it gleamed, but it didn’t hide the sadness and apprehension in her eyes.

  Laura knew the words of condolence she was going to utter would sound empty. Experience had taught her that they made no difference; they helped the speaker, rather than the bereaved. She supposed she should offer the poor woman a chair, but thought she’d probably refuse. ‘I held Mr Grantham in high esteem, and as a very valued member of my staff, Mrs Grantham. Consequently I want to do all I can to help you. The accident was most unfortunate, there being no warning that the horse would kick out in that manner. I am very sorry. It is sad, too, to think that this has come at a time when your daughter is to leave to take up the placement I found her at Tom’s – Mr Grantham’s – request. Are you still of a mind to let her go?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. I can’t see her waste a chance like this. I’m grateful to you for getting it sorted for her. She leaves this afternoon.’

  ‘A good decision. Such placements are not easy to come by. I hope your daughter doesn’t let me down, as Madame Marie took her solely on my recommendation. The type of employees she usually takes on are educated, and from middle-class families. Vicars’ daughters and the like.’

  ‘My Cissy is as good as the next one, I’ll have you know. Oh, I – I beg yer pardon, Ma’am.’

  Although the woman had apologized, the outburst shocked Laura. She was aware that she had alienated the woman, but she had no idea how. Better to ignore it.

  ‘Now, about your own future. I understand you work at the local shop?’

  ‘Aye, I do, Ma’am. I do three days, and some cleaning for Manny’s wife.’

  ‘Well, Mr Harvey and I have decided you may stay on in the cottage. There will be a rent of one shilling and three farthings per week, and you will be expected to help out in the house from time to time, to cover for staff sickness or any social events. We are not looking to employ a new groom in the foreseeable future, so your tenancy is safe for some time. The new enterprise Mr Grantham and I were working on – the building of a stud farm – is not to go ahead at present.’

  The act of telling someone this news brought home the reality of it. Jeremy had been adamant, saying that he felt it an unwise investment and that she would never succeed in the face of strong opposition, especially from the Smythe stud farm just a few miles away. How could he have such little faith in me? Or are his objections just another way for him to punish me? She took a deep breath. If the woman noticed Laura’s concerns, she didn’t show it – she showed only relief for her own position.

  ‘Ta. Oh, ta ever so much, Ma’am.’

  ‘If we decide in the future to hire another groom, we will inform you in good time and will rehouse you. In the meantime, Henry Fairweather and Gary Ardbuckle are going to manage the stable. Henry hasn’t lost his skills. He taught your husband, as you know.’

  ‘Aye, Ma’am, he did. I can’t yet grasp how someone like my Tom could be killed by a horse. Not with him being best in county with horses, and him being so strong.’

  ‘Yes. It is unbelievable . . .’

  ‘Me and my Tom thought as we had a lifetime together. We didn’t count on that being until I were forty-five and him just on fifty. We—’

  ‘Yes, of course. I am very sorry. Do let me know if there is anything more we can do for you.’

  She didn’t want or need to hear about how this woman’s aspirations had been snatched away from her; she had enough of her own dashed hopes to contend with. Reaching behind her, Laura tugged the bell cord. Hamilton appeared immediately.

  ‘Do wish your daughter good luck in her position, and remind her not to let me – us – down. Goodbye, Mrs Grantham. Hamilton, take Mrs Grantham through to the kitchen. Give her some supplies.’

  ‘I don’t need none, ta very much, Ma’am! I have plenty in me pantry, and me pot’s still full. Full enough for me own care, anyroad, and I’ve no one else to care for now, have I?’

  ‘Come along, Mrs Grantham.’ Hamilton ushered her out.

  Laura looked at the closed door in bewilderment. She shook her head. Whatever had she said to alienate the woman in that manner? Surely the woman didn’t blame her for the accident?

  Opening her silver cigarette case released the tang of fresh tobacco. Her hands shook as she placed a cigarette in her holder and lit it. The smoke stung the back of her throat, and coughing brought tears to her eyes. Good God, I am going to cry! Damn and blast the woman! Damn and blast everything.

  3

  Rules Mean Nothing to Cissy

  ‘Which one of you is Megan Tattler?’ Madame Marie looked from Megan to the girl standing by her side.

  ‘I am, Madame.’ Megan stood straight, with her shoulders pulled back, just as Sister Bernadette had told her to, though she didn’t keep her eyes lowered to the floor. She didn’t want to be seen as insolent, but neither did she want to be seen as someone who’d been dragged up from the gutter.

  The imagined picture she’d had of Madame didn’t match what she actually looked like. Her name, and what she had said in her letter, had conjured up a witch-like, beady-eyed person with teeth that stuck out. Not that she could describe the real-life Madame as pretty; she was more like . . . handsome, yes, that was the word. A funny one to use for a woman, but that was the impression she gave, though her precise, almost sharp features were softened by the way she wore her hair: swept up into a roll that lay like a halo around her head, leaving curled tendrils falling onto her face. Her grey eyes didn’t show any emotion. They, like her voice and her manner, remained businesslike at all times.

  Madame turned her eyes to the girl standing next to Megan and asked, ‘So, you must be Cecelia Grantham?’

  ‘Cissy . . .’

  ‘Cecelia!’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  Megan heard the girl sniff as she answered and wanted to take her hand, to give her some comfort. They had met a few moments ago by the door of the office in which they now stood. They hadn’t spoken. Cissy, as she now knew the girl was called, had given her a watery smile, and she’d sensed it was best not to question her. But she had thought that Cissy had the prettiest face she’d ever seen: her big, round eyes were of the palest blue, which even the puffiness of crying hadn’t spoiled; and her hair – which reminded Megan of the colour of straw when the sun shines on it – had the look of a mound of bubbles, as it tumbled round her face in a mass of curls. It did occur to Megan to wonder why she looked so sad, but she hadn’t wanted to intrude. And anyway, the sight of the rows of benches where young girls sat, bent over their sewing, had caught her attention. One of them had sniggered and nudged the girl next to her, but Megan hadn’t let that bother her. Instead, she’d lost herself in the smell and the colours of the fabric, and the rows of shelves housing boxes she supposed held things like cotton reels and fastenings. All of it gave her a
good feeling; one that no one could spoil.

  Madame Marie let out the breath she’d been holding, as her glare left Cissy and shot between them both. ‘Not that it matters what your Christian names are, as from now on you will be known as Miss Tattler and Miss Grantham. May I remind you that you are extremely lucky to be here – especially you, Miss Tattler. Though it is a concession on my part to have taken either of you on. You at least, Miss Grantham, come with a modicum of respectability and a reference from one of my best clients, whilst the only persuasion I have for taking you, Miss Tattler, is the talent you seem to display in design, and the exquisite stitching of the samplers I was shown.’

  Megan lifted her body from her belly upwards and stretched her neck to lift her head high, keeping her eyes staring straight ahead. Although this outward sign of pride helped her, her inner shame made her face burn scarlet.

  ‘Be aware: I will be watching your every move. Manners and attitude are just as important to me as hard work and ability. In all of these disciplines, you both have to prove yourselves worthy of being here.’ Madame paused and stared directly at Megan, who dropped her head. What does it matter? I know inside I am as good as the next one.

  ‘I’m glad that is clear to you, Miss Tattler. I hope the way you are to conduct yourself around the ladies working here is just as clear.’

  Megan nodded.

  ‘I was tempted to put you both together, but I don’t want to risk offending Mrs Harvey. So you, Miss Grantham, will be allowed to sleep in the main dormitory. But remember, the other ladies there are above your station in life, and you must treat them as such at all times.’

  ‘But, I – I don’t – I’d like—’

  ‘Never answer back, Miss Grantham! Never! Always remember: you may only speak to me when I have spoken to you first, and then only if I require an answer. Do you understand?’